Cautionary Lesson
by gure
Summary: Sometimes exercising caution creates more suspicion than one might anticipate.


Disclaimer: Rurouni Kenshin belongs to Nobuhiro Watsuki.

Summary: Sometimes exercising caution creates more suspicion than one might anticipate.

A/N: Just a little wandering fic. The pov swings a little wildly near the end. If it's confusing, please let me know, and if you have suggestions, all the better.

**Cautionary Lesson**

by: gure

It wasn't terribly often he was invited to dinner for no reason other than human kindness. Usually, there was an unspoken, and sometimes more blatantly stated, agreement that while his host provided food, Kenshin would provide some form of work in return. A perfectly fair and acceptable arrangement that had kept him fed for the several months he'd been wandering. He was becoming quite adept at getting by on a minimum of funds; hard work earned all he required. Kenshin blinked at the old man's offer, then smiled a rurouni smile and gratefully accepted.

He had met the man on the road. The elderly man was a farmer, carrying his baskets of vegetables home from the market. A basket had slipped from his grip, and Kenshin retrieved the wayward produce, returning the basket to the old man with an offer to share his load. The farmer had chuckled and accepted the basket, but refused the extra help. All he asked was a bit of company on the way home. It felt awkward providing company; Kenshin had grown quite used to traveling alone, preferring the solitude. However, a request was a request, and he did his best to smile and be receptive as the old man chatted idly about nothing of importance.

Now, at the gate of his small house, an unexpected offer of dinner. A wisp of smoke rose from a hidden hearth, promising a meal, and warmth, and a place to rest, if only for a little while.

As Kenshin followed his host through the gate and toward the house, it came. A dreaded, inevitable, friendly question. "What's yer name, son?"

Kenshin nearly flinched, and suddenly wished he'd never met this kindly-seeming man on the road. It wasn't often he received offers of food with no thought of asking anything in return. A little company didn't count. His name, however, was asking more than he could provide. Work was anonymous and uncomplicated. He worked for food and when the weather was bad, shelter. Giving his name though, that implied trust. His instincts told him that this was a good man. He was most likely someone who could be trusted, which made it even worse. He didn't want to endanger a good, well-meaning person. He also didn't want to leave a trail. He had disappeared for a reason, with no intention of ever being found.

The old man sensed his hesitation, and slowed his pace to look over his shoulder at Kenshin. "You do have a name, doncha?" He made it a joke, and added a little chuckle, but looked expectantly at Kenshin, waiting for an answer.

He wished it didn't have to be this way, and hoped the old man would understand. Something grew a little colder inside, a little more isolated, when he smiled a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes and nodded. "Yes. This one is called Rurouni."

The old man's gaze sharpened, and he eyed Kenshin appraisingly, taking in his red hair, the crossed scars on his cheek. "Rurouni, is it?"

Kenshin nodded, uneasiness quickly crowding out that previous, tentative sense of acceptance. He kept his face carefully blank, watching the farmer, who didn't seem quite as old and harmless as before.

"Seen a lot of action, then?" the farmer asked, indicating with a lift of his chin, the scars, the sword resting against his hip. "You know," he continued, his sharp eyes gauging Kenshin's reaction, "there hasn't been any action in these parts; news trickles down slowly."

Contrary to his shishou's belief, Kenshin was not an idiot in all life's concerns, and he recognized a warning when he heard one. The word the farmer had used, action, sent his stomach into knots of disgust. Action. He hardly categorized the things he had done as 'action.' That almost implied he had enjoyed it. Murder, cold-blooded killing in the name of something he hadn't quite understood, regrets he'd never be able to erase. He suppressed a shudder and realized with a start that the farmer was still waiting on an answer, that sharp gaze never wavering, while his own mind had been a million miles away. With a flush of embarrassment and no small amount of shame, Kenshin answered quietly, "This one has recently abandoned the...action." He swallowed thickly, that word tasting of all the death and pain he had hoped to leave behind.

"Have you now." Not exactly a question, and Kenshin took the statement for what it was, letting his bangs cover his eyes. The farmer continued, undaunted. "That sword might suggest otherwise, son."

Kenshin was past regretting helping this man, and had moved on to figuring out how to get out the conversation as quickly as possible. He wasn't sure if the old man was suspicious of him personally, or of an armed man in general. All he knew was that uncomfortable feeling of things slipping beyond his control. He knew from experience that keeping control of a situation kept him alive and relatively unharmed.

Slapping on a guileless smile, careful not to actually touch the hilt, he indicated the sword with a quick gesture. "This? It...is not for killing. Will you allow this one to show you?" Sometimes the right amount of honesty combined with enough cluelessness would suffice for another to let their guard down. Kenshin hoped it would help ease the old man's fears. He understood that these were hard times, and the fear a weapon could inspire. He just hoped to put a cap on the man's worries before the conversation spiraled out of control.

The farmer watched Kenshin's hands, then met his eyes. Satisfied with whatever he saw there, he finally nodded his assent. Holding in a sigh of relief, Kenshin slowly unsheathed the sword partway. At the man's surprised intake of breath, he took the opportunity to explain. "The blade is reversed. It was a parting gift from a...friend." Kenshin was sure if Arai Shakku had heard that, he would have shown him how a sakabatou could kill, but what he didn't know wouldn't hurt him. Smiling inwardly, he looked at the old man, hoping he would understand.

The farmer was still staring at the sword, as if trying to comprehend why someone would even bother. Lifting his gaze, the farmer received another surprise. While it didn't curve the young man's lips, a smile shone in his eyes. He decided then that this was a very strange young man. While he wasn't convinced he was as harmless as he wanted people to think, he believed that this young man's intentions were pure. He hoped so, at least. Finally, he broke eye contact and turned back to the house.

Kenshin watched him head toward the house, and slid the sakabatou back into its sheath with a decisive click. As he turned to leave, the old man tossed over his shoulder, "Well, come on in if you're hungry." Turning partway, and watching Kenshin's back from the corner of his eye, he elaborated, "Tell you what--you won't give your name, and I won't give mine, but the wife still thinks we have a passel of little ones and tends to cook for an army. It'd be a shame and a waste for all that food to go uneaten. Share a meal with us, then be on your way."

Stopping mid-step, Kenshin turned, surprised. He was about to politely refuse, when his stomach let out a very loud growl. Mortified by the old man's knowing chuckle, and against his better judgement, he turned completely and began to follow the man inside. Gathering what was left of his dignity about himself he answered, "Thank you. This one would like that." After all, a free meal was a free meal, and he still had a long way to go.


End file.
